The Violin Shop
by gingerkitten2784
Summary: John takes Sherlock's violin for repair and enjoys an afternoon with the luthier. Though mostly John/OC, there is plenty of snarky Sherlock goodness.


Dr. John Watson awakes to a loud banging on his door. The red light of his alarm clock shines brightly, displaying the time. 3:47 am.

He rolls over in his bed and grunts angrily. "What the bloody hell do you want, Sherlock?" he shouts at the door.

"My violin needs repaired. It's got a crack, and the strings have gone dead."

"Couldn't this wait til morning?" John whines.

"You can't take it now?"

"Seeing as any respectable shop won't open for another - 5 hours? No. I don't think I can."

"Oh. Alright then. So you'll take it to the shop in 5 hours?" says a deflated sounding Sherlock.

"Yes." John calls out, exasperated. "I'll take your violin to the shop in 5 hours. Now do us both a favor and go to bed!"

Soft footsteps retreat from the door, and John can hear his flat mate sigh and tunelessly pluck the dull sounding strings. He rolls over again, and attempts to fall back to sleep. One thought drifts through his mind as he closes his eyes: _Why do I put myself through this..._

A few hours later, the harsh buzz of the alarm clock pulls John from a wonderful dream. Something about punching a tall, slender man in an ugly hat. He shuts off the alarm and sits upright. The crisp, chilly air of the room stings every inch of his bare torso, contrasting sharply with the dull, pleasant warmth of the heavy blankets. With a groan, he stands and pulls on his dressing gown. Having hung on the back of his door all night, the dressing gown feels like an icy embrace and does nothing to improve his mood.

Mornings like this make him miss serving in Afghanistan. Sure, the constant mortar fire, and IED attacks wrought havoc on his nerves, but at least the London winters remained thousands of miles away. He shuffled slowly into the kitchen, and turned on the kettle to make some tea.

"I said, 'did you write down that address, John?'" a voice called from the armchair by the window.

By now, John knows this game. He no longer bothers to ask stupid questions like: 'What address?', or 'How long ago did you tell me?'. Instead he bites back: "Obviously not, Sherlock. I just got out of bed. Now, do you want a cup of tea?"

"No, I just want you to take my violin to the address I gave you. It sounds terrible, and it's driving me mad." After a moment, the armchair adds: "And yes. A cup of tea would be nice."

John prepares the tea as usual with milk and sugar, and hands one to Sherlock, still splayed over the armchair. The two men sit in silence: John, reading the Guardian website on his laptop, and Sherlock, staring blankly out the window.

The rest of the morning passes in this manner; John making breakfast, having a shower, getting ready to head out into the dreary London streets, and Sherlock staring pensively out the window. Doctor Watson has learned to let his flat mate alone when he gets into these moods. Bothering Sherlock right now would be akin to prodding a sleeping grizzly bear - a smug, obnoxious grizzly bear.

Once John has showered and dressed, he returns to the living area to find Sherlock's violin packed neatly in its case. A scrap of paper lay on top showing an address just a short cab ride away. Though he must have set all this out, Sherlock does not appear to have moved from his position at the window.

"Right. I'm off, then. Back in a few hours. Call if you need anything." John says, as he puts on his coat and picks up the violin. He hears no reply. Only Sherlock's hand waving in his direction acknowledges his words. Not as though it matters.

He trudges down the stairs, out the door, and hails a cab to the address on the scrap of paper. Once there, he pays the cabbie and enters the ancient looking shop. Dusty windows let in little light, and the lamps at the ceiling don't offer much more. Once his eyes adjust to the dusky half-light of the store, John looks around to see the place surprisingly well-populated. At least a dozen people stand hunched over bins full of sheet music, heads down, searching intently.

A red-haired woman stands behind a counter, her eyes scanning her dimly lit surroundings. When her gaze lands on John, she makes eye contact and smiles.

"Can I help you, sir?" she asks.

_She doesn't sound like a Londoner, but one can hardly tell from just a few words. _

"Um. Yes. I hope so. My friend needs his violin repaired. He says it has a crack, and the strings have gone dead."

"Well hon, you've definitely come to the right place. Pull it on out, and I'll have a look."

_Nope. Definitely not a Londoner. She sounds American. Yes. Must be American. Europeans don't smile this much at strangers...or ever, come to think of it._

"Ah. Well. You see. I think I should show it directly to the repairman. It's a Stradivarius."

The woman gives him and incredulous look.

"I highly doubt that. Besides, I am the repairman."

"Oh. Sorry 'bout that." John says, embarrassed, and places the case on the counter.

She opens the case and inspects the violin, turning it over gently in her hands. Her eyes dart back and forth, and her fingers move lovingly across the body of the instrument. She taps seemingly random places and listens intently. Somewhere in the back of his mind, John feels jealous that a woman can look so affectionately at an inanimate object. After a few minutes of close inspection, she speaks:

"Yup. Just what I thought. This is not a Stradivari. The label is wrong, the varnish is wrong, the shape is wrong, the wood is wrong."

"Are - are you sure? You've only looked at it for a moment. An expert verified it as a Golden Era Strad."

"Well, that guy was a moron. Look. I own three of the things, and do regular maintenance on three more. This violin was made later. And it's French. A Vuillaume. Late 1800s. Some jackass tried to stick a fake label in here. Look, you can see it starting to peel away."

She hands him the violin, and directs him to look in through one of the f-holes.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock." John mutters.

"Is 'Sherlock' the moron that called this a Golden Era Strad?"

Watson nods. "And probably the jackass that put in the fake label, yes. So sorry to have wasted your time."

"Oh no, this isn't a waste. Vuillaume made great violins, and this one needs some love. Has someone been leaving him out in the cold, setting him in precarious places, just generally not being nice to him?"

John hangs his head. "You have no idea. That poor violin has endured so much."

She snickers at the comment and smiles again. "I think we can get him back in shape. No worries. How about you come up to the workshop with me? You can fill me in on this little guy's hardships."

"Umm. Sure, but who will watch the counter?"

"Not a problem." she says to John. Turning slightly away, she shouts: "Billy! Get your butt over here. Your turn on the counter."

"Ugh, Sabby. Come on. Can't Jimmy do it?" wails a voice from a dark corner of the shop.

"Goddamnit, Billy!"

"Fine. Jesus Christ."

A reedy looking man in his twenties, wearing torn jeans and ratty trainers, walks sullenly behind the counter. His fading grey t-shirt reads: 'Trombonists Do It In Seven Positions'.

"Keep an eye out while I'm upstairs. Alright?"

"Fine." sulks Billy.

With a head tilt, she motions John to follow her deeper into the shop. They walk up a flight of stairs, through a few corridors, and stop at a locked door. Despite the antique feel of the surroundings, the door has a sophisticated digital lock. The woman enters and he follows her.  
Though this room has excellent lighting, John can't make heads or tails of the place. Not a single inch of wall space remains uncovered. Shelves and hooks protrude from everywhere, all full of strange tools, wood scraps, broken instruments, and parts of instruments waiting to be assembled and varnished. Somehow, the woman finds some space on a table and gets to work. She takes off all of the strings, as well as the bridge, tailpiece, pegs. Everything that can come off, does. After that, she takes a cloth and goes to work removing all of the dirt and grime collected on the instrument. At this point, John realizes that this may take a while.

"Geeze. This poor little guy has been through the ringer."

"Um. If I may ask, why do you keep calling the violin 'he'?"

"Instruments have personalties, just like people. Some are boring, some are quirky, and some are just assholes. It doesn't seem right to just call them 'it'."

"Oh. I see."

"I wouldn't blame you, if you think I'm a nutter." she says darkly.

"I think you're the sanest person I've talked to all day."

The woman smiles, and goes back to rubbing at the thick layer of rosin caked on the top of the instrument.

John and the woman continue to talk as she works on Sherlock's 'abused' violin. He comes to find out her name is Sabina, Sabby for short. She has worked at the shop for three years and recently inherited it from her mentor. Before London, she lived in Ireland with her (now ex-) fiancee, and before that, she had hardly left the East Coast of the United States.

Once he feels comfortable, John tells her about serving in Afghanistan, working as a doctor, and his current life as the best friend and (apparently) live-in errand boy for the world's only consulting detective. Two hours pass, and finally, Sabina has filled and set the crack in Sherlock's violin. It has to sit overnight.

"Well, he's looking better already. I don't think we'll need to worry about touching up the varnish, it seems fine. Tomorrow morning, I'll inspect the crack, do a proper set-up, and put on some decent strings. He should sound better than ever."

"That is brilliant, Sabina. Thank you."

"You won't say that when you get the bill." she grins at him.

"It doesn't come out of my pocket, why should I worry?"

"Fair point. Meanwhile, I don't know about you, but I am starving. Care to take a girl out to lunch?"

Unused to a woman being so forward, John replies without thinking.

"Uh. Yeah. Sure"

"Brilliant. There's a little deli 'round the corner. Gorgeous sandwiches, and damn good espresso."

The longer they talk, the easier John finds the conversation. She listens intently as he tells her about various cases he and Sherlock have solved. He details their visit to Buckingham Palace, and Sabby nearly chokes on her turkey sandwich when he describes the part where Mycroft stood on Sherlock's sheet.

"I thought I would die from holding in the laughter, but when everyone was looking at his bare arse, I pocketed a teaspoon."

"Not like the old bat would notice." Sabby chuckles.

John scowls at her.

"What? I'm an Irish Catholic American, that spent four years in Cork. 'Old bat' is me being nice."

John shrugs.

"C'mon. What happened next?"

After a look, he continues the shortened version of 'The Scandal in Belgravia'. At the end of the story, she asks: "So what really happened to The Woman?"

"No clue. He won't talk about it. Though, occasionally, I catch him looking at his phone in a funny way and he pockets it."

"Sounds like your friend keeps you on your toes." she says as they stand and pull on their coats. she waves to the deli owner on the way out.

"Ciao, Giacomo. Grazie mille."

John nods politely to the man and they walk out into the dreary London street. Sabby grabs his arm, and easily falls into step with his even military stride.

"Thanks for lunch. It's nice to have a conversation about something other than classical music. Don't get me wrong. I love this gig, but when you've heard the phrase 'I once attended a master class with Heifetz.' for the thirteenth time in a week, you get a bit edgy."

A freezing gust blows between the high buildings and she buries her face in John's shoulder, attempting to shield herself from the cold.

Slightly startled, his shoulder tenses, and she pulls back.

"Oh. I'm sorry, did I get too familiar? Sometimes I'm a little too friendly. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"No. No. You're fine. Just surprised me is all. Come on. Let's get you back." he says with a smile.

John offers his arm, and she takes it. They walk the remaining few blocks in silence, occasionally glancing at one another and smiling. When they reach the massive wooden door of the shop, Sabby reaches for the handle.

"Say. I should probably head back, and check on Sherlock. Four hours alone, God knows what he's got up to." John says, in an overly cheery tone.

"Sure. Thanks again for lunch, it was really nice."

"Yeah. Of course..." his words drift off momentarily. "So. The violin should be ready tomorrow?"

"Mhmm. He'll be all set by tomorrow afternoon."

"Right. So...I'll see you then."

"Sounds good, John."

After a short cab ride back to Baker Street, John Watson ascends the stairs to his flat. He enters the open door and discovers a half dozen of London's finest in the sitting room. Everyone listens intently as Sherlock describes each minute detail of a murder committed last week. The man stops mid-sentence to acknowledge the return of his flat mate.

"Ah, John. You're back. Could you make some tea? I'm about to solve a murder in record time."

"Just get on with it Holmes." Lestrade growls.

"Now really, Detective Inspector, where would you be without me?"

John rolls his eyes, hangs his coat on the rack and strolls into the kitchen to flip the switch on the electric kettle. He rummages through a cabinet in search of Hobnobs or Jammy Dodgers, even some McVittie's Digestives, to no avail. With a sigh he sets out the saucers and teacups, and heads back toward the sitting room where Sherlock concludes his deduction.

"...And there you have it. Arrest the pool boy, he's your killer. Now if you will please leave, I'd like to drink my tea in peace."

The officers look at one another for a moment before getting up and heading for the door. Sherlock can have a disorienting effect on people.

As the others trudge out, Lestrade walks over to Sherlock. "As always Mr. Holmes, the Metropolitan Police Service thanks you for your assistance." he says with that familiar blend of admiration and contempt.

"Yes. Yes. Do try to bring me something more interesting next time. I need to keep my skills sharp. A child could have solved this." Sherlock replies, with a dismissive hand wave.

Lestrade's eyes narrow. "Right. Good evening Sherlock. John." he nods as he walks toward the exit.

"Who needs a pool boy in January?"

"Someone with an indoor pool, obviously. Where's the tea?"

"It's coming."

"Honestly John, sometimes I wonder if Lestrade's people are lazy, or just stupid. If I weren't so bored, I'd probably stop helping them."

"Uh Huh." John replies. He's heard this rant dozens of times before, and tunes it out. As he prepares the tea, his thoughts drift back to the violin shop, and he debates whether or not to tell Sherlock about Sabby.

"So, did Mr. Tolliver fix my violin?"

Sherlock's question catches John's attention and brings him back to the present.

"Hmm?"

"Mr. Tolliver, the luthier. Did he fix my violin?"

"Oh. The repair needs to sit overnight. Tomorrow it gets a set up and a new set of strings."

"Good. The man always does excellent work."

_"I'm sure he did."_ John mutters to himself. "Here's your tea."

"So what took you so long? Dropping off a violin shouldn't take four hours. You weren't meeting that Katherine woman again were you?"

"Katherine? I haven't seen her for three months."

"Melissa? Is that this one's name? You know I don't bother learning their names."

"I'm not dating anyone right now Sherlock."

"Then, what took so long?"

"I had some errands to run." _Yes. That's boring enough, he won't push that._

Sherlock eyes him carefully for a moment, gives up and sips his tea. John settles onto the couch, and starts editing a blog post about one of their recent cases. The rest of the evening passes quietly. John works on his computer while Sherlock runs some expiriments in the kitchen involving canned tomatoes and a pig's kidney.


End file.
